


Heartbeats

by irithyll



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: A little bit of angst, A pinch of smut, F/M, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Post-RE5, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but mostly just fluff, canon? I hardly know her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-23 01:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20883959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irithyll/pseuds/irithyll
Summary: Good things come to those who wait.





	Heartbeats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cyanCaddy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanCaddy/gifts), [Xaori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xaori/gifts).

> This disgustingly saccharine fluff is devoted to cyanCaddy and Xaori, the two loves of my life, but I hope that you'll enjoy it too. Please consider this to be my apology for Ceremony and all of the other horrible things I have done to these beautiful fictional human beings.

Chris doesn't think he's ever seen someone so pale. Jill's bleeding out in his arms, skin so stark from hemorrhage that he swears he can see through it, and it fills him with a sense of panic. She's light and motionless in his hold, one of her arms limply dangling at her side, and he thinks there is no way in hell he's going to let her die here—not again.

He feels dizzy as he steps through the automatic doors and into the threshold of one of the B.S.A.A.'s medical centers. The young girl seated behind the desk appears bored, swiping her finger across the screen of her phone as she entertains herself with a noisy puzzle game. At the sound of Chris's heavy footfalls, she looks up, and her eyes widen as she lets out a gasp at the sight of them. An alarm starts to sound—at least, he _thinks_ it does, but he can't hear much aside from the tremor of his own heart—and several people in scrubs come rushing from beyond the far door. They motion to a gurney, but he doesn't want to let her go. It's taken so long for him to find her and he can't understand how anyone could expect him to leave her.

"Who is she?" One of the women ask and Chris swallows hard as he looks down at her face.

"SOA Jill Valentine."

He's aware of the skeptical looks he receives, but he doesn't fucking _care_ because Jill is alive, god dammit, and everyone else had been wrong. Someone is speaking, another person is placing a hand on her shoulder, and he feels his blood begin to boil. They're wasting a hell of a lot of time when there's so much blood.

"Can you fucking _help_ her or not?"

The question seems to surprise them. His eyes narrow as he stares hard at one of the clinicians.

"I'll do everything I can." She assures him. "What happened?"

Chris doesn't know what the fuck happened.

"Wesker...there was this device on her chest." He clenches his eyes closed, struggling for words. "He called it P30. It was controlling her or something. We pulled it off, but there was so much blood and…"

His voice cracks as someone takes Jill from his hold and lays her out on the gurney. He watches her chest rise and fall in staggered breaths and he reaches out for her hand, enveloping it in his own with ease. Chris doesn't understand how something so small can bleed so much and he doesn't understand why no one is as scared as he is.

"It's okay." The woman says as the team rolls Jill away from him. "I'll take good care of her, SOA Redfield."

The squeak of the wheels as they take her away is piercing. Chris feels short of breath as he watches her disappear behind the swinging doors and he wonders if he should bully through them despite the bold letters that indicate entry is only meant for staff. His heart skips a beat and he looks away to find that the lines in the tile below his feet are blurred. When he blinks, it doesn't resolve, and he feels something seize in his chest.

He had only just found her and he's already losing her again.

When he looks back towards the fleet of empty chairs in the waiting room, he feels something wet trickle down his face, but he wipes it away with a callused hand and takes a seat across from the door through which she left him. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and he stares into empty space.

There's no telling how much time has elapsed when Rebecca finds him. She places a warm hand on his shoulder and he whips around quickly, fist clenched, and Rebecca winces at the sight.

"You're hurt." She softly observes as she takes a seat beside him and gingerly lifts his hand in hers. It's heavy and hot, knuckles torn to shreds and bruised beyond belief, and she watches him flinch when she runs the pad of her thumb across the ridges of his fingers.

"It's fine." He insists as he pulls it away with more roughness than intended.

Rebecca smiles, an empty expression that he knows is meant to comfort him, but how the fuck is he supposed to be comfortable when Jill is _dying_ in the next room?

"Wesker had her." He suddenly speaks, voice dark and venomous. "He _tortured_ her."

Rebecca shifts in her seat, but she doesn't speak in fear that her words might persuade him to stop.

"She had this..._thing_ on her chest." He swallows hard when he feels the phantom sensation beneath his fingers, the resistance that came with each tug as he attempted to remove it from her. "They called it P30. It was controlling her. He…"

He's just now realizing what Wesker had done.

"...he made her into a B.O.W."

The words burn the back of his throat and he suddenly wishes he would have fucked him up even worse than he already did. He should have kept him alive, should have abused him in the ways he must have with Jill. Chris can't imagine the things Wesker has done and he's not sure that he wants to.

"They'll," he laughs darkly, unsure, "They'll fix her, right?"

Rebecca pats his thigh in a gesture that's supposed to console him. Lying was never one of her talents, so she simply decides to refrain from doing it.

"They'll do everything they can, Chris."

Once she speaks, Rebecca finds herself stunned because she didn't know a man like Chris Redfield was capable of tears. It makes her uncomfortable. It makes them _both_ uncomfortable. Just as quickly as it began, it seems to ease. Chris breathes in deeply and wipes at his eyes with his bruised hands and sighs.

"They'll save her." He pauses. "They'll save her. They will."

Rebecca wonders if this is Chris's attempt at prayer.

Eight hours later, someone emerges from behind those fucking doors. Chris hears them swing on their hinges and the sound is deafening as the woman approaches them. She's pulling a surgical mask from her face as she walks and he notes the blood that saturates the front of her pale green scrubs. The sight of gore has never nauseated him before, but he suddenly thinks he might vomit all over the goddamn floor.

"The surgery went well."

There is no sigh of relief that escapes him. Chris stares blankly at the woman because he doesn't know what that means. He struggles to understand what she's saying because all he can think is _Jill is alive, she's fucking alive, she's still alive, Jill is alive._

"—moved to intensive care—"

Chris doesn't know what that means either, but it doesn't sound particularly good, and he feels his heart sink low in his chest.

"—lost a lot of blood—"

No fucking shit.

"—life support."

What?

"What?" He can't tell if he spoke it aloud or not and the woman gives him a look that's so sympathetic that it's almost insulting.

"She needs rest." The woman says. "More blood transfusions. We'll keep her in intensive care until her vitals are stable."

"But she's alive." He thinks it was meant to be a question, but it sounds a hell of a lot more like an argument.

"She _is_ alive," the woman presses her lips together in a grim line, "But critical."

"But _alive._"

Rebecca reaches over to give his hand a squeeze and he doesn't even realize how much it hurts.

"Come on," Rebecca says, "We'll go upstairs and see her."

Chris didn't know that something so small could withstand so many tubes and wires. Jill's hard to recognize beneath all that equipment, pinned down with so many crisscrossing wires and tubes that it makes him dizzy when he tries to follow them with his eyes. She's still so pale and there's these fucking tubes coming out of her mouth and it makes him sick because he wonders if this is how she looked in Wesker's lab, if he worked just as hard to keep her alive with the sole intention of destroying her. He thinks he might hate himself for letting Wesker get off so easily, but hindsight is always 20/20, isn't it?

Chris all but collapses into a chair at her bedside and takes hold of her hand. It's impossibly cold and he wraps both of his palms around it in an attempt to warm it because that might be the only thing he can do to help at this point. He closes his eyes and listens to the quiet blip of the bedside monitor and the mechanical sound of the machine beside him as it forces air into her lungs.

He wonders if he should say something.

"Can she hear us?" He asks, eyes still shut.

"Maybe." Rebecca says. "No one knows for sure."

Chris's expression twists into something ugly. He grits his teeth and wrinkles his forehead and Rebecca doesn't know what's going through his mind, but he quickly becomes his usual stoic self before she has a chance to ask.

"I'm sorry, Jill."

It's only three words, but Rebecca feels like her heart is breaking in two. She wants to tell him that it's not his fault, that _none_ of this is his fault, that she's sorry she didn't believe him when he asserted that she was alive, but she knows there's no point. Words are just words and she doesn't think anything will comfort him besides the sight of Jill's pale blue eyes.

"You should get looked at too." Rebecca suggests and Chris glares so hard that she nearly trembles beneath his gaze, but she remains insistent as she gestures towards one of his hands that's started to swell. "I mean, I think you broke something."

He flippantly looks down at it and mumbles, "I'll live."

Rebecca wonders if Jill will too.

Chris stays beside her, unmoving even as different people quietly slip into the room to assess her. On the morning of the third day, Jill's nurse kicks him out of the room.

"You need to take care of yourself so you can take care of her." She says with stern eyes and a gentle smile that might have comforted him if it was anyone but Jill laying in that bed. "Eat. Take a shower. Sleep."

His expression shifts, eyebrows raising and lips twitching with a protest that hasn't quite yet formed, but she shakes her head and points at the doorway.

"I will call you if anything happens. I promise."

Chris can't think of a proper retort, but when he steps foot in his shower at home, he feels sick to his stomach. Guilt weighs heavily on his shoulders and not even the hottest water at the highest pressure can relieve the tension that haunts him. He watches the dirty water rinse down the drain, a rusty mixture of dried blood, foreign sand, and gunpowder, and he wonders if Jill knows he's left, if she thinks he's abandoned her again.

He never once stopped searching for her, but he hasn't had a chance to tell her. Chris wonders if she thought about him in the ways he thought about her or if P30 wiped her memory clean of him while in control. Did she hate him, he wondered, or resent him for what happened? Did she ever wish it was him who fell through that fucking window instead?

He knows he has.

Chris can't force himself to stomach food and after tossing and turning for an hour and a half, he decides that sleep isn't going to happen. He's back at the hospital before he knows it and the security guard outside of the critical care unit gives him a judgmental look as he passes his identification over to him for entry.

"Chris Redfield." He reads aloud and Chris raises an eyebrow.

"Yeah," it takes everything in his power to keep from snatching the card back, "What of it?"

They share a heated look, the air around them tense, but the guard acquiesces and feigns a cordial smile.

"Nothing," he says, "Thanks for your service."

Chris scoffs as he passes through the door, but bites his tongue so hard that he tastes metal. He doesn't give a fuck what anyone has to say because he was _right_ the entire time. Jill didn't die that night at the Spencer Estate and he wonders if the assholes who suggested he go to therapy will apologize once she pulls through.

Jill's nurse is in the room when he enters, tracing lines and checking numbers on all the machines that he tries to ignore. She looks back at him over her shoulder and sighs softly.

"That wasn't much sleep." She comments and Chris rolls his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug.

"It's enough."

He realizes that the chair he's been living in over the past few days has been draped in blankets and pillows to make it more comfortable for sleep. Chris looks over at the nurse and she just smiles knowingly before exiting the room. As he reclines back in the chair, he takes Jill's hand in his and he's pleasantly surprised to find that it's warm. Chris smiles to himself as he pulls up the blankets and drifts off to sleep despite the soft chime of Jill's heart rate and the hiss of the machines.

He doesn't know how long he's been asleep, but he's startled awake by the sudden sound of the door being swung open as several nurses rush into the room. The clamor of their shoes against the polished floor is deafening and he's suddenly aware of the shrill beeping in the background. He looks up at the monitor and he doesn't know what the fuck he's looking at, but that noise sounds terrible enough to let him know something isn't right.

"No pulse," someone announces and Chris watches her nurse leap up in the bed and straddle Jill's tiny frame as she begins CPR.

Chris can't tell how long it takes because each passing second feels like a lifetime. He watches everyone shuffle around the bed as they carefully discuss what's happening with one another and Chris can't understand how anyone can be so calm when that fucking alarm is blaring in the background. After what feels like hours, Jill's nurse hops off the bed and moves to stand beside him as another takes her place. She wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and Chris trembles.

"What's happening?" He asks with a voice that doesn't sound like his own.

Her nurse takes in a sharp breath and explains.

"Cardiac arrest." She says it as though she's discussing the weather. "But she's a fighter."

He doesn't know what the fuck that means until he hears a relieved sigh and an announcement that there is, in fact, a pulse this time. Everyone looks at one another, compliments are passed around, and soon the room is empty save for himself, the nurse, and Jill.

"Why did this happen?"

She shrugs.

"She's been through a lot."

He wonders if she even knows the half of it as he stares blankly at her.

"Thanks," he finally chokes out as he reads her name tag for the first time, "Sofia."

Five days later, another alarm sounds, but it's different this time. Chris jumps up from his chair in a panic and looks to the monitor, but he doesn't see any blinking messages this time. He looks at the machines and one of them is flashing red. Chris panics, moves to run out the door in search of assistance, but he's met at the doorway by Sofia.

"It's okay," she assures him, arms crossed over her chest as she nods back at Jill, "She's waking up."

Chris can't believe what he's hearing. He's back at her bedside in an instant and watches her silently cough around all the tubes in her mouth. It makes him cringe and he looks to Sofia, who seems completely unperturbed by the scene.

"Does it hurt?" He asks and Sofia shrugs.

"It's not comfortable." She confesses and Chris thinks he hates everyone until he sees Jill's pale eyelashes flutter.

"Jill?" He whispers as he clenches her hand a little tighter.

He sees those powder blue irises for the first time in what feels like forever and he chokes on something thick that surfaces in his throat. Her eyelids close and open, eyes glazed over with confusion at first, but then she looks him in the eyes and he sees something flicker in her stare.

Chris can't hold back his tears this time and he doesn't know that he wants to.

"Jill."

She nods her head, squeezes his hand back.

They tell him they want to try to pull out the breathing tube, that they have to test her lungs first to make sure she's breathing enough on her own. He leans against the wall as they stand around her and give her instructions. Chris imagines it's not easy to breathe through the tiny tube in her mouth, but if anyone can do it, it's Jill. She doesn't seem bothered by it as she nods her head in response to what everyone is telling her to do and he watches her sit upright in bed and take in a deep, long breath.

Someone turns to Chris and tells him she needs to keep breathing on her own for a while, that she needs to stay calm. Chris tells them that Jill doesn't need to be told to stay calm, that she's always been the one to keep him in line. Everyone soon realizes that perhaps they should have instructed _him_ to stay calm as he anxiously stands beside Jill, nervously fluffing pillows and asking her if she's alright.

Jill swats at his hand when he tries to readjust her blanket for her and she rolls her eyes playfully. Someone slips into the room to check numbers on the machine and they tell her she's doing well, that they can pull it soon if she keeps it up. Jill nods her head and Chris wonders why the fuck they insist on torturing her for so long, but Jill sees the anger on his face and pinches his forearm to distract him. He softens and sits beside her as she traces letters in the palm of his hand.

Chris almost can't believe what she's spelling.

"I love you too," he whispers, "Fuck, Jill. I don't even know what to—"

She covers his mouth with her hand and shakes her head. Jill pokes him in the chest and writes again—_IT'S OK._

Jill smiles around the tube and he thinks she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Sofia kicks him out again.

"We're going to pull the breathing tube." She informs him. "It only takes a minute."

He leans against the wall outside and counts the seconds. Once he gets to sixty-three, he wonders if everything is alright and he thinks about charging back in the room, but he suddenly hears the sound of her coughing and he feels relief wash over him.

Sofia steps outside and points at him accusingly.

"Don't stress her." She warns. "Her throat is going to be sore. She doesn't need to talk right now."

Chris holds up his hands in surrender and she steps aside to permit him entry to the room. Jill's sitting upright in bed, eyes closed and hands resting in her lap, and he feels his breath catch in his throat at the sight of her because he loves her, dammit, despite the tube blowing oxygen in her nose and all the bandages and IV fluids attached to her arms.

She looks up at him and smiles.

"Hey." She croaks, voice rough and dry, and he quickly shakes his head.

"Don't talk right now." He instructs her. "They said you need to rest your throat."

Jill pouts, her stare hard and challenging, but he remains firm. With a sigh, she relents and pats the empty space on the sheets beside her. Chris knows he won't fit, but he indulges her anyway. He drops the side rail and sits on the side of the bed, one leg still on the ground as he stretches the other out alongside hers. She scoots over a little, makes more room for him, but it's not enough. It's uncomfortable and he feels like he's sliding off the mattress, but it doesn't matter.

She tugs on the edge of his sleeve and he looks down at her. Jill's looking up at him with tired eyes and he wonders what's running through her mind. She's looking at him expectantly and he doesn't know what she needs until she cranes her neck and presses her chapped lips to his.

Jill tastes like stale blood and morning breath, but he wouldn't have it any other way. She doesn't taste the way she used to, doesn't feel the way she used to, but she's Jill, _his_ Jill, and everything about her is still just as perfect as it's always been. When he tangles his fingers in her hair, he's surprised by the weight of it and even more stunned when he opens his eyes to see the paleness of it. She doesn't _look_ the way she used to, but it doesn't fucking matter because she's here, warm and pliant and very much _alive_ beneath his touch.

Chris pulls away, but he keeps his forehead in contact with hers. His eyes are closed, dark lashes fanning over his skin that's tanned from time spent beneath the African sun, and she thinks that maybe she doesn't deserve him, not after the things Wesker once forced her to do. Jill cups the side of his face in her palm and trails the pad of her thumb across the stubble that peppers his cheeks. The light reflects off of it and she catches a glimpse of a few premature greys that have sprouted on his face. She wonders if she is to blame, but she doesn't dare ask. Jill doesn't want to know the ways she's haunted him because she isn't sure that she can bear it.

"I thought about you every day." He confesses, voice deeper than she remembers. "They all thought I was crazy, but I knew. I _knew._"

She presses her finger to his lips in order to silence him because she doesn't think she can bear it right now, not when he's looking at her with those eyes that shine with tears that threaten to fall.

"I thought about you too." Her voice is hoarse and gravely, but it doesn't take away from the warmth he feels in his chest at the sound of it. "Every day."

There's an attempt at a laugh on her part, but it sounds as though it's painful to make. He can almost feel the soreness of her throat in his own and wonders if he should silence her.

"632 days." She tells him. "632 days since I had last seen you."

Chris asks the question that burned his tongue for six hundred and thirty-two days.

"Why? _Why_ did you do it, Jill?"

She reaches up to take his face in her hands and gently wipes away his tears with a brush of her thumbs across his cheeks.

"Because you're stronger than me, Chris." Jill smiles weakly. "I wouldn't have been able to live without you."

Chris almost laughs at the remark.

"I didn't do much living without you, Jill."

She lays back against the pillows and rests her head on his shoulder as she clasps his hand in hers.

"I'm sorry, Chris," she whispers, "I just couldn't let it be you."

When she falls asleep, Chris realizes he can't fault her for what she had done because he would have died for her a hundred times over if it meant preventing all of _this._

Jill starts physical therapy the following day. Sofia takes away his chair and forces him to stand in the corner of the room as she helps Jill sit up on the side of her bed. Her legs freely dangle above the ground and she presses her palms against the mattress, forcing herself to sit upright with stiff arms as she tries to catch her breath. The fact that such a simple task leaves her breathless makes her laugh. They couldn't _imagine_ the things she had done with the strength of P30 in her system.

Chris hates watching it.

"I can just lift her." He insists and both women glare at him.

"That defeats the purpose." Sofia clicks her tongue at him in a way that he supposes a mother would.

When she finally makes it to the chair, Jill grins so wide that he can't help but smile back. Her breathing is labored and there's a light sheen of sweat across her forehead, but she's glowing with pride for what she has accomplished. She gives him a thumbs up from across the room and his heart swells.

Two days later, they transfer her from intensive care to a regular room, and Chris calls Claire.

"Chris, what the _fuck_?!"

Her shriek is so loud that he has to pull the receiver away from his ear out of fear that it might rupture his eardrum.

"Sorry." He winces as he says it. "I just...wanted to be sure."

There's static on the other end of the line as Claire pauses.

"How could you keep this from me?" She hisses quietly. "I could have been there with you."

"I'm sorry." He repeats and he can hear her defeated sigh.

"Can I come see her?"

"Yeah."

He's not surprised when she shows up with so many bags dangling from her arms that she nearly topples over. Claire walks in when Jill's attempting to stomach a cup of half-cold chicken broth that she suspects might secretly be dirty dishwater and she's quick to push it aside at the sight of her.

"Jill fucking Valentine." Claire greets and Jill beams at her.

Claire looks over at her brother with a wrinkled nose.

"Did you snort all those steroids for show or are you gonna help me?"

She extends her arms to show off her luggage and Chris begrudgingly relieves her of their weight. Before he has a chance to set them down, Claire has already pulled up a chair and takes a seat across from Jill with a look of admiration on her face.

"Chris wasn't kidding. You're _blonde_ now." Claire states the obvious as she leans forward to curl a tendril of Jill's pale hair around her finger.

Jill's cheeks flush and she looks down into her cup of god-knows-what sheepishly.

"Right?" She laughs. "It's horrible."

"You make everything look good, Jill." She compliments before looking up at Chris. "Right, Chris?"

He grunts because he thinks it goes without saying and they laugh.

"How long has it been since you've left the hospital?" Claire asks in a way that's almost threatening.

Chris almost lies, but Jill answers for him.

"_Too_ long." She says sternly. "He doesn't listen to me."

Claire shakes her head.

"Go home, Chris." She insists. "It's girl time now."

Chris tries to protest.

"Nope." Claire cuts him off. "Girl time. Go shower or something. I'm sure you stink."

They argue for a while, but Claire ultimately wins because she's his baby sister and Jill is on her side. He doesn't know what to do with himself, but he guesses showering is a good place to start.

Claire pulls Jill into a tight hug when he leaves and Jill inhales sharply as a result of the pain.

"Shit," Claire leaps away from her, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

Jill isn't upset.

"It's not your fault." She rubs at her chest absentmindedly. "They said they, uh, broke a bunch of my ribs with CPR."

"Holy shit, Jill…"

"I've been through worse. Just," she pauses, "Don't tell Chris, alright? He's already too much of a mother hen as it is."

Claire laughs. Jill laughs.

They both missed this.

Claire helps her wash her hair with store-bought shampoo, something with a light floral scent that leaves her hair feeling soft unlike the hospital-issued toiletries. It feels so good to floss her teeth and she appreciates the burn from the alcohol in the mouthwash Claire gives her because she isn't sure her mouth has felt this clean in six hundred and something-something days.

As she's working Jill's hair into a loose braid, Claire begins to confess.

"I feel like such an asshole." She says as she shakes her head. "I really thought you were dead. I mean—"

"I _was_." Jill interrupts. "Don't feel bad."

She doesn't plan to talk about it, but suddenly she _does_ and Claire's fingers pause.

"Wesker threw it in my face all the time, told me how ungrateful I was after he so _kindly_ resuscitated me." Jill rolls her eyes. "He was so proud of himself. 'Just wait until Chris sees _this,_' he'd say. It was always about Chris."

Claire resumes the movement of her hands and gently pulls more pieces of Jill's hair into the braid.

"What a bastard." She curses under her breath. "What a fucking bastard."

"He's dead...for real this time, I think." Jill says softly. "Chris killed him."

Claire tugs a little harder than she intended, "That fucker didn't even tell me."

Jill shrugs.

"I'm sure this is hard for him, Claire." She defends and Claire sighs as she fastens the end of Jill's braid with an elastic tie.

"You have no idea, Jill." Claire takes her seat once again and holds Jill's hands in her own. "Chris...fuck, I don't know who he was for a while. He wasn't himself."

She worries her bottom lip between her teeth as she reflects on it.

"All he did for a while was drink. I was positive that he would drink himself to death, but he called me one day and he sounded like Chris again. Fuck, I didn't believe him at the time, but he told me you were alive. He _insisted_ that you were alive and that he was going to find you. I thought it was some weird manifestation of his grief, you know, but it started to get out of hand. He just kept training and searching, making contact with all these shady people. There were nights where he wouldn't sleep."

Claire buries her face in her hands, hiding her face.

"We eventually fought about it. I told him that he was losing his mind and that he needed counseling. Hell, we _all_ did, and he cut us off. He distanced himself from us and, the next thing I knew, Leon said he was going to fucking Africa in search of you."

Jill feels like she's drowning in guilt, a sensation that runs colder than the river she once died in.

"I'm glad he had you." She murmurs. "Thank you for taking care of him."

Claire waves her hand nonchalantly through the air.

"I'm just glad you're back," she gushed, "I don't know how much longer he was going to last."

Jill doesn't want to think about it, so she doesn't.

Chris returns that night with a steaming container of tomato bisque from a local restaurant and she downs it appreciatively as she curls up in his lap. They watch the second half of some drama on the tiny, grainy television screen, but she doesn't pay it much attention. She's focused on the feel of him, how hard and wide he's gotten, and she thinks about what Claire told her.

"You changed." She muses aloud as she trails her fingertips along the solid curve of his bicep.

"Yeah," she picks up on the shame that hides behind his words, "I didn't have much else to do."

Jill smiles and tilts her head upward to place a lingering kiss where his jaw meets his neck.

"I like it." She whispers and Chris feels each syllable between his thighs.

When they discharge her, Jill is elated. She's eager to strip off the drab grey hospital gown that she's been restricted to and she slips into the chambray dress Claire brought her with a smile on her face. Chris hears her rifling around in the bathroom as he signs the last of the discharge paperwork and she peeks her head out as he passes it back to the representative.

"Will you zip me?" She asks and he's reminded of _before,_ the times in which he'd help her into those slinky formal dresses she wore to the RPD's events and those in which he clumsily stripped her out of them.

He clears his throat before he responds, "Of course."

His breath hitches when she turns her back to him. From between the loose edges of fabric, he sees the long scar that runs along the length of her spine. The flesh is angry and red, raised and swollen, and he feels his rage begin to build.

"Too complicated?" She teases as she gathers her long braid and pulls it over her shoulder, peeking back at him as she does so.

"You know me," Chris pretends it doesn't affect him, "I'm a simple guy."

Jill turns in his arms once he's fastened her dress closed and she stands on her tiptoes to press a chaste kiss against the corner of his mouth.

"It's okay," she mumbles against his mouth, "It wouldn't be fair if you had brains _and _braun."

He tries to make a comeback, but Jill's fast. She hoists her bag over her shoulder and giggles as she scampers out the door. He lets her have the last laugh because it's adorable.

The medical center is a short distance away from his home, but he takes his time because Jill seems to enjoy the ride. She rolls down the passenger side window and breathes in the late summer air, smiling to herself as the sun's rays warm her face. He feels strangely whole as he watches her and he thinks that she was meant to fill the empty space beside him.

When they arrive at their destination, Jill seems surprised.

"You own this?" She asks incredulously as she peers up through the windshield at the charming little home.

"Yeah," he laughs, "Is that such a surprise?"

Jill points at the blue hydrangea bushes out front.

"Chris Redfield owns a house and flower bushes?"

He takes a little offense to it and informs her, "They reminded me of you."

Jill feels her heart skip a beat and she stares blankly at the bushes, taking in the light blue petals that rustle gently in the breeze. She doesn't notice Chris has rounded the truck and opened the door for her until he's reaching over to undo her seatbelt for her.

"I can do it, you know." She expresses her disdain with a wrinkle of her nose and Chris presses a quick kiss to the bridge of it.

Jill indulges him, allows him to take her hand to help her out of the vehicle, and she hesitates near the hydrangea bushes. She closes her eyes and breathes in their scent with a goofy smile.

"I'm sorry," she laughs, "This is all just...awfully domesticated. I never thought you'd settle down."

He frowns hard as he pushes open the front door, keys jingling as they dangle from the lock.

"I guess you'd be surprised."

Chris thinks about the ring buried in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, the one he would have used to propose to her had she not gone and _died_ at the Spencer Estate, and he decides it's best for it to remain a secret.

Jill methodically tiptoes through his house, carefully investigating each nook and cranny. She runs her fingers along the back of the couch, counts the plates stacked in the kitchen cabinet, and stares hard at the empty half of the his-and-hers sink in the master bathroom. Chris can tell something's amiss and he sneaks up behind her to wrap his arms around her as he rests his chin on her head.

"Are you okay?" He asks and she rests her hand on his forearm that's looped beneath her breasts.

"Yeah," she's surprised by the sniffle that escapes her, "It's just weird. Everyone just...kept living, I guess."

She doesn't understand why she said it. Of _course_ they kept living without her. What were they supposed to do? Lay down and die?

"I'm sorry." She quickly corrects herself. "I don't know why I said that."

Chris feels her discomfort like a knife to the gut.

"Claire wants to have a party this weekend." He suddenly announces. "To bring everyone back together, you know?"

Jill squirms a little in his hold as she weakly responds, "Sure."

The thought of seeing everyone suddenly makes her nervous. Jill doesn't know how they'll react and, truth be told, she doesn't know how _she_ will either.

"We don't have to go." He tells her. "We can just stay home. Order a pizza and watch shitty zombie movies like we're twenty again."

She tells him she'll think it over, but she doesn't really have any intention of doing so. Jill doesn't think she's ready to face everyone after the things she's done.

"Hey."

He squeezes her, pulls her closer against his body and hugs her just a little tighter.

"It'll be okay. We don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

That night, as they lay in bed, she decides she wants to do _him._ He seems surprised by the sudden press of her mouth against his, but he relaxes against her and rests his hand on the curve of her hip. Jill kisses him more insistently, nips at his lower lip and trails her tongue across the tender flesh. Chris makes a quiet sound in her mouth and she takes advantage of it, throwing one leg over his and shifting so that she's straddling his torso while she kisses him like her life depends on it. His hands hesitate at the backs of her thighs and she breaks off the kiss to study his face, her long hair cascading around them as she hovers over him.

"Jill." His voice is husky and thick, rumbling so low that it makes something stir low in the pit of her belly.

Her face is a little flushed and her lips are parted, glistening in the dim light provided by the flicker of the television screen behind her.

"We don't have to...not now."

She shakes her head and presses her lips against his neck, the tip of her tongue flitting over his bounding pulse point.

"I want to, Chris." She murmurs against his skin before carefully grazing her teeth along his sensitive flesh.

It's almost like she never left. Jill's still fluent in the language of his body and she's pronouncing every fucking sound _perfectly._ Chris gasps when her hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt and his hips lift on their own accord when her fingers dance along the sculpt of his abs. He feels like he's burning up beneath her touch and he thinks that he might combust if she doesn't strip his shirt off him soon.

Jill's a mind reader. When she tosses his shirt over the side of the bed, she looks down at him and takes in the ripple of muscle beneath her. It's different, _he's_ different, but she thinks that she doesn't mind getting to know the intricacies of his new body. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of her thighs as she kisses down his neck and over the breadth of his chest. He sees stars when her lips graze over his abs.

"Jill."

He looks down at her and finds that she's looking right up at him, eyes heavily lidded and dark with lust. Chris wonders if he'll last long enough for her to get him naked because _fuck, _he's thought about this so many times, fantasized about the memory of her as he imagined his hands were hers.

Jill wants him to know how much she loves him because she doesn't understand why she wasn't so forthcoming with her feelings before. She watches him strain beneath her touch and she thinks that Chris Redfield might be the best thing she's ever done in her entire life. Jill wonders if she can atone for her sins, if her body is enough of an apology for the grief she put him through.

When she pulls back the waistband of his sweatpants, she discovers that it might be. He's at full attention, visibly twitching in the open air, and she can't remember him ever being so thick and long. She finds it fascinating as she attempts to wrap her fingers around the base of him and finds that she can't quite bring her fingertips together around his circumference. He groans and lifts his hips a little. She watches the muscles in his abdomen flex with the movement and she takes him in her hand as she gives him a slow, curious pump of her fist.

Chris makes a strained sound that catches in his throat. Her fingers are so small and warm around him and he thinks his memory fucking _sucks_ because it was never quite like this. Jill glides her thumb over the sensitive tip of his head and he gasps, thrusts his hips forward and bites his tongue as she smears his precum along his length.

But then she takes him in her mouth and Chris thinks he might die. She's looking up at him through her thick lashes, her blonde hair thrown over one shoulder as she takes him as deeply as she can. He feels the flat of her tongue as it teases the underside of him and she suddenly sucks hard, enveloping him in the moist heat of her mouth. Jill bobs her head along his length and he tangles his fingers in her hair in an attempt to keep himself grounded to reality.

"Jill." He utters her name between clenched teeth as he tries to keep from spilling down her throat. "_Please_."

She releases him with an audibly wet sound and looks at him curiously, her lips wet, flushed, and inviting. He gasps for air as her hand finds him again, stroking him gently as she sidles back up his body and kisses the side of his face. Chris turns his head to the side to catch her lips with his own, kissing her hard before he flips her onto his back.

He wants to undo the pain she's endured, to ensure her that she's safe and alive. He wants her to know how much she means to him, how badly he ached for her over the last two years. Chris wants her to know that he's sorry, that he would have preemptively thrown himself out that fucking window had he _known_, and that he secretly longs for a white picket fence and a happily ever after with her.

His hands are hesitant beneath the edge of the shirt that she stole from his closet. They linger at her hip bones and he curves his fingers around her as he searches her face for unspoken permission. Jill lifts her hips and it causes the loose fabric to ride up her body until it pools beneath the generous swell of her breasts, baring the lean length of her to the open air.

It's enough for him. He helps her out of the shirt and sits back on his haunches to observe her. Jill's just as breathtaking as she's always been, all curves and feminine muscle, and he doesn't know if he can drag this out in the way that he'd like. Chris moves to hover over her, resting his weight on one of his forearms as his hand follows the shape of her.

He cups a hand around her aching breast and she arches her back to fill his palm. He passes his thumb over the hard peak of her nipple, eliciting a gasp, and he pauses to catch it between his fingers. Chris kisses her from her mouth to her sternum, hesitating at the scars that litter the space between her breasts as he carefully tweaks her sensitive nipple between his fingers. He takes his time as he presses his lips to each and every one of them in apology, smiling against her skin as she writhes against him.

Jill doesn't have the patience for this. She's waited so long to be with him again, six hundred and some fucking days, and she thinks she might die if he takes any longer. Her fingers sweep over his length and it twitches against her touch.

"Chris." She whines his name and he knows.

He hesitates at her entrance, the swollen tip of him just barely nestled against her.

"Are you sure?" He asks and she nods fervently.

Chris takes his time pushing into her. She's so hot and tight, so _wet,_ and he groans with each inch that she takes. He's wider than she remembers and she briefly winces before wiggling her hips a little to take him in deeper. He grasps a fistful of the sheet beneath her and his opposite hand finds hers, their fingers lacing together as he completely sinks into her.

Their eyes meet and neither of them dare to move. He stretches her just right, makes her feel complete, and Jill doesn't know if she's ready to let that feeling go. She moans softly as she pushes forward, bringing her hips flush against his so that no distance remains between them. He moves his hand from the sheet to the small of her back, cradling her close as he once again commits the feel of her to memory.

And then he moves. He pulls back slightly and glides forward, eyes rolling back in his head as he revels in the slickness of her. She rises and meets his subsequent thrust. Jill's fingers curl more tightly between his and she lifts her legs, locking them around him to keep him close.

Neither of them last long. He works her slowly at first, quickly picking up the pace in response to each gasp that he draws from her lips. She comes first, nails digging so roughly into his skin that it breaks, but he can't focus on anything but the sight of her as she trembles beneath him. He loves this, loves _her,_ and he comes shortly after she does.

Their ragged breathing fills the air and he tucks her hair behind her ear. Her eyes open and she looks up at him through heavy lids, both exhausted and sated, and he places a kiss on her forehead as he withdraws from her.

"You can sleep." He whispers against her skin and she makes a quiet sound of opposition as she curls up against him.

Chris holds her and quickly discovers that she now screams in her sleep.

Three weeks later, she tells him she's ready to return to the B.S.A.A. He hates the way that sounds even as he mulls it over in his head, but who is he to tell her what she can and can't do? Chris holds his tongue as he nods.

"Sure. I'll ask."

He's almost glad that it doesn't work out. They tell him there's no way in hell that she can return, that she's a liability and a threat to security. It pisses him off and he makes that known, but the powers that be insist that it's inappropriate.

"She built this fucking organization!" He shouts, hand curling into a tight fist.

"She could turn on us at any moment." They counter.

He tells them it doesn't work like that, that Wesker is so fucking dead that not even a bit of him remains to be buried and that she's been clean since the moment he ripped that god damn device from her body. They tell him that he can't promise that, that Jill could theoretically be manipulated by any bioterrorist group that understands the complexities of P30. He tells them that they're fucking stupid.

"They're reviewing your file." He lies over dinner that night, but she knows he's not being honest and Jill doesn't mention it again.

Chris takes her to some shitty friends and family event that the B.S.A.A. and TerraSave host every quarter and he instantly regrets it. The judgmental glares and hushed whispers that follow them throughout the night provoke his ire, but Jill is more tolerant than he is. He and Claire both think it's bullshit and they cuss about it to one another, but Jill smiles and rests a hand on his forearm.

"It's okay, Chris," she says it like she means it, "I don't blame them."

"Fuck that," Claire argues, "And fuck them. I'll blame them for you."

Jill's fingers traipse over the fabric of her dress; specifically, the high neckline that hides the mutilation of her chest.

"I don't look like Jill Valentine." She laments, voice barely above a whisper as she stares out into the distance with a blank look in her eyes. "I must seem like an imposter to everyone."

Claire hastily throws back both her champagne and Chris's in order to suppress her anger.

Chris dwells on Jill's words as he tends to the hydrangeas the following morning. It's his own private ritual, a practice that brought him a small semblance of peace while Jill was away. As he clips at the branches, he questions why Jill feels as though she's an imposter, if he's somehow done something to make her feel so negatively about herself.

Later that afternoon, Claire comes by and Jill sits in the middle of his kitchen as his sister rakes her fingers through her hair. He sits at the table and watches, arms crossed over his chest as he leans back in a chair and observes.

"Are you sure?" Claire asks and Jill nods.

Chris watches her pale hair fall in whorls onto the floor. It feels strangely symbolic even to him and he hopes it brings Jill the familiarity that she longs for. Claire crops her hair to her shoulders—a _lob_, she tells him, because it's _totally_ in right now.

The chemical scent of the dye Claire pours into her hair make him sneeze.

"The things you women do to yourselves." He mumbles with a teasing roll of his eyes.

"No one invited you." Claire petulantly sticks her tongue out at him. "Why don't you go pick up something heavy or something?"

Jill smirks and Chris mirrors her smile in spite of his sister's teasing. They sit in the kitchen and reminisce as Claire occasionally pulls back the cover on Jill's hair to intermittently peek at what lies beneath. There's discussion about what Jill missed, warm stories about Barry's daughters and the not-so-shocking revelation that Rebecca has become a tenured professor in her absence. She's proud of them for having grown while she hadn't; more aptly, Jill feels she had simply stagnated.

It's difficult for her to define herself without the context of the B.S.A.A. Jill has lived and breathed the war on bioterrorism since she was in her early twenties. Having it so abruptly torn away from her is jarring and she realizes that idle time is difficult to fill when you have no responsibilities. It makes her feel guilty.

Claire leaves Chris behind when she ushers Jill up the staircase to rinse her hair clean over the edge of Chris's tub. He anxiously waits downstairs and he feels his breath hitch when she inevitably returns. Jill is a spitting image of herself in her twenties and her presence inspires the same jitters he experienced back in Raccoon City when he was just a dumb cop trying to impress a pretty girl.

"Jesus, Claire, do you have a time machine in your pocket?" He asks, but he can't tear his eyes away from Jill.

Jill's face feels hot and she realizes that she's crying. It isn't a result of misery or post-haircut guilt and, really, she doesn't understand why she's sobbing, but Claire seems to. She pulls Jill into an embrace and rubs soothing circles between her shoulder blades.

"Thank you," she mumbles, her voice muffled by the fabric of Claire's shirt, "For always being good to me."

For the first time in six hundred and something days, she feels like Jill Valentine again, and it's a far cry from the monster Wesker had forced her to become. It gives her a semblance of confidence, a feeling that she had long lost, and she realizes that maybe, someday, she can be the strong woman she used to be.

That night, Chris makes love to her like he's twenty-five again and she teasingly complains that she won't be able to walk straight in the morning. Truth be told, Chris hopes she can't, if only to appease his masculine pride. Jill's gait is off because of the soreness between her thighs and he smirks to himself even as he leaves for work. It's a smirk that lingers throughout the day and confuses most of the lower ranking agents because they don't think they've ever seen Chris look so _alive._

"You having a stroke, Redfield?" One of them asks and he thinks it would have made him angry if he didn't have Jill waiting at home.

Chris can't recall ever being so happy in his entire life. When he gets home, Jill is waiting for him at the door and the house smells like cinnamon and sugar from whatever she's popped in the oven. She grins at him and he meets her in the doorway with a heated kiss and an arm wrapped around her waist.

"Bad day?" She asks with her mouth still against his and he shakes his head.

"I just appreciate you." He tells her. "I don't think I ever took the time to let you know."

She understands what he means. They're both guilty of having guarded their feelings in the past for reasons that she can't explain. It was stupid—_they_ were stupid—and it's hard to keep anything a secret now that they've become intimate with the cold hand of death. Jill smiles and nods her head as she tells him, "I appreciate you too."

As with all things, the peace doesn't last. The B.S.A.A. insists on Chris's deployment to Europe, citing that his expertise is "unparalleled" and "critical" for the nature of the present outbreak. Chris isn't so easily convinced and he's less than pleased when he's told that he'll be leading an entire team for the duration of the mission.

"If you haven't noticed," he advocates, "I don't have the best track record with keeping teammates alive. I'll work alone."

The powers at be aren't sympathetic and the request for Chris's assistance quickly becomes a demand. He's left with no choice but to leave and he isn't sure that he has ever felt so anxious about work before. Maybe the jitters are reminiscent of Arklay, but it's different this time. Back then, Chris didn't have anything to lose. Now, he's at risk of losing everything.

Jill isn't as perturbed. Chris complains incessantly about it as he packs his equipment, but she sits on the edge of their bed with a commiserating smile.

"They need you," she tells him, "To save lives. Isn't that what we founded the B.S.A.A. for in the first place?"

She's right because she's _always_ right, but he doesn't dare admit that. He was bright-eyed and ambitious back then, overly eager to an arguable fault. The kid who founded the B.S.A.A. is no longer a part of him. Chris thinks he has paid his dues, that he's lost more than enough to this endless war, and that the B.S.A.A. should get its shit together and train the incoming kids more appropriately. He's tired and ready to raise his flag.

Jill sides with the B.S.A.A. and it almost pisses him off. He wonders if she's living vicariously through him, if she's hoping to relive her glory days through his accounts of what goes down in Europe. Chris doesn't confront her on this and instead uses it as fuel to get him through the ordeal. He's not doing this for the B.S.A.A. and he makes that explicitly clear—he's doing it for _her._

On the night that he leaves, Jill finds it hard to sleep. She tosses and turns because the sheets feel awfully cold without Chris's presence to warm half of the bed. The chill inspires dreams of the times she'd rather not remember, the fleeting moments in which she was lucid enough to realize she was strapped down to a cold metal table as chilled intravenous fluids filled her veins. One night, she wakes up with a scream in her throat, her teeth gnashed together so tightly that she tastes blood.

Chris contacts her when he can. Europe is fucking _cold_, he says, and the coffee sucks. He's tired of breathing in everyone's cigarette smoke and there's always rain. Jill tries to mention good things, attempts to help him find the silver lining in it all, and he interrupts to tell her that he misses her. It's a statement that surprises her, one that she's never really heard before. She's stunned into silence for a moment.

"I...miss you too." She confesses and it makes her feel _something_ in her chest that she doesn't quite like.

Claire ends up staying with her. She makes up an excuse about the water temperature in her apartment being off, but Jill can tell she's lying by the way she averts her eyes and stiffens her shoulders. Jill doesn't put up an argument and allows her to settle in. Claire brings the log-in details for her Netflix subscription, wine, and her favorite cozy blanket for them to share on the couch. Jill wonders if this is what high school sleepovers would have been like had she not been such a serious, lonely teenager.

Her light buzz is enough to compel her to tell Claire how bored she is.

"I know Chris doesn't think I should work, but this is so _boring._" She laughs as Claire refills her glass. "I hate having idle time."

Two days later, TerraSave calls her in search of an advisor to advocate for the needs of survivors of bioterrorism. She knows Claire is responsible even though she feigns innocence and Jill feels pathetic. Jill thinks she has been a burden to the Redfields ever since she came back and she resents herself a little for being so useless.

She immerses herself in work. TerraSave doesn't handle her with kid gloves. No one cringes in her presence because they fear she might soon hunger for their flesh. They respect her, _listen_ to her, and thank her for her invaluable advice as a survivor herself. She feels like she's making a difference and it gives her purpose while filling the Chris-shaped hole in her life.

Claire has a penchant for shitty food. She suggests fried chicken and horror movies on a Friday night and Jill allows her to have her way, but when she steps into the house, the mere smell of it makes her stomach turn. The nausea is so overpowering that she nearly gags, but she manages to keep her composure.

"Want some?" Claire offers her a drumstick as she steps into the living room and Jill shakes her head.

"It smells terrible." She comments as she plops down on the couch.

The comment confuses Claire. She leans in close to the container of chicken and breathes it in before giving Jill a dubious look.

"It smells like fried chicken." She insists as she looks back at Jill from over her shoulder. "Are you pregnant?"

Jill laughs and shakes her head as she peels off her socks.

"I'm pretty sure I'm infertile now, Claire." There's a hint of sadness in her voice that doesn't go unnoticed. "Wesker said something about it once. It was another way for him to get back at Chris."

The movie sucks and Jill is nauseated at the sight of all the blood. It doesn't make much sense to her and she wonders if she picked up a case of gastroenteritis from the lunch that was catered in at work. Her lack of appetite persists throughout the week and Claire suggests that she should see a doctor, but Jill refuses.

She eventually thinks twice about it when she realizes her bra no longer fits and her boobs hurt so much that she has to forego it entirely. Her cycle has been irregular and often absent for extended periods of time ever since the Spencer Estate, so she chalks it up to a bad case of PMS, but she can't get the niggling thought out of the back of her mind—_is_ she pregnant?

The thought terrifies her and she feels completely out of place as she stands in the brightly lit feminine hygiene aisle at the local pharmacy. There's about a million and ten different brands of pregnancy tests and she doesn't understand why it's necessary. The prices alone seem like highway robbery and she wonders if price correlates with accuracy.

Her skin is covered in gooseflesh and she takes in a deep breath as she randomly snatches one off the shelf. She tosses it in her basket and takes a step away, but pauses once more and looks back at the sea of boxes. Jill wonders if she should grab another in case her impulsive decision was a poor one and she inwardly groans because she's back to square one.

She can't decide if she should tell Claire or not. Jill sits on the edge of the tub and stares hard at the boxes that sit on the adjacent countertop as though they've somehow offended her. Her heart beats loudly in her ears and she feels sweat begin to bead along the nape of her neck. She doesn't know if she's ever been this anxious before.

Jill decides she'll take one and she'll only tell Claire if it's somehow positive. She discovers that it's incredibly hard to pee when the pressure is so high and she lets out a shaky breath once she finally does. Her face is buried in her hands once she's set the test down on the countertop because she can't bear to watch it.

When she sees the tiny plus sign on the screen, she thinks she's going to faint. Jill feels panicked. Her heart skips a beat and her peripheral vision disappears and all she can see is that fucking plus sign. She presses a hand against her aching chest and she feels her legs begin to tremble, so she sits back down on the edge of the tub and calls out for Claire.

Claire rushes into the bathroom like Jill's dying because, really, she's never heard her voice tremor like that. She nearly slips on the tile floor in her haste and she's grateful to see that there's no blood, but she turns and sees the plastic stick sitting on the countertop and she _knows._

"Well, um," she looks at the numerous boxes set out beside it, "That was just one, right?"

Jill's face is still buried in her hands as she nods.

"They can be wrong sometimes. You should try another before you freak out."

When the fifth test comes back positive, Claire decides it's time to step in. She kneels down in front of Jill and takes her shoulders in her hands to give her a gentle shake back to reality.

"Jill, listen to me." She speaks softly. "You're pregnant...with what I assume is my brother's child, right?"

Jill makes a choking sound as she nods.

"Just stay calm, okay?" Claire smiles and she wonders if Jill is buying any of it. "I'm trying not to think about _how_ this happened because I _really_ don't want to picture my brother's dick in my head, but it happened, okay? Everything is going to be fine."

"I don't think it's okay, Claire. I mean, I drank a few weeks ago and my body is so fucked up and—"

"And it's okay." She insists. "We'll go to the doctor tomorrow."

Claire pulls Jill into an embrace and she bursts into tears before her face can even meet her shoulder. She rubs her back as she cries and all she can think is _fuck,_ Chris better make it back from that mission in one piece.

By one in the afternoon the following day, it's official—Jill Valentine is pregnant with her brother's child and, as far as anyone can tell, everything is developing appropriately in spite of the wine and whatever mad scientist bullshit Wesker did to her. Claire's so excited about it that it feels like her heart is swelling.

"Oh my god," Claire whispers once they're back in the car, "Chris is going to be so excited."

Jill grimaces as she fastens her seatbelt.

"I don't...think we should tell him yet." She swallows hard. "They said the first trimester is the most dangerous and I just...don't want to get his hopes up in case something happens, you know?"

It nearly breaks her heart to hear it, but Claire agrees. Jill has always been the logical one and, though she isn't sure about the morality of the decision, she has to admit that it makes sense, but it doesn't keep her mind from running wild with images of a dark-haired, bright-eyed child and Chris's face when he hears the news.

"So," Claire asks that night, "Do you think he'll finally pop the question?"

Jill shrugs. She's been extraordinarily quiet, but Claire supposes she can't blame her.

"You know he's always wanted this right?" She attempts to reassure her. "He told me about it when you were...dead."

Jill appreciates her attempt and forces a smile. Claire sighs and leans back into the couch cushions as she begins to scroll through her phone.

"Fine," she teasingly says, "I'll just have to live vicariously through you and plan your Pinterest wedding because I know you two would totally have a lame courthouse wedding."

Jill laughs because it's true, but the conversation is making her uncomfortable and she decides to turn the tables.

"What about you, Claire? Don't you have someone in your life?"

Claire snorts. "I'm over that for a while. I learned my lesson."

"Kennedy?"

Claire's expression falls.

"Yeah." She mumbles. "I was young and dumb."

"You were in love." Jill corrects her. "We all do stupid things for love."

Claire is silent for a moment before she cheekily asks, "So, do you want blue or silver straws at the reception?"

Jill can tell her pain runs deep. Claire isn't ready to talk about it, so she doesn't ask again.

Four days later, she's torn away from her sleep by the sound of a door slamming shut. Jill sits upright in bed and strains to make out a noise in the house, not entirely convinced that she hadn't merely dreamt it. She waits and nearly lays back against the pillows until she suddenly hears a quiet _thud_ from downstairs.

Her reflexes surprise her. She wastes no time in pulling her Beretta from the bedside table and she gracefully leaps out of the bed. Her muscle memory is as strong as ever and she steadies her aim, half-expecting a zombie to come bustling through the door. Footsteps draw close and she holds her breath, her curled finger hovering above the trigger.

There is no forced entry as she expects, only the careful twist of the doorknob and a hesitant push at the door. Chris's hands are up in the air, palms exposed in surrender before she can register what's happening as he calls out, "Whoa, don't shoot."

Jill lets out the breath she was holding and tosses the gun onto the bed. She's less than amused, crossing her arms over her chest as she glares daggers at him.

"God dammit, Chris, why didn't you tell me you were coming back?"

He smiles sheepishly, an expression she can barely make out in the little moonlight that filters through the curtains.

"Remind me not to ever try to surprise you." He laughs as he reaches forward to pull her into an embrace.

Chris smells like dirt and blood, but it doesn't keep her from burying her face in the front of his chest. Jill grips the snug fabric of his combat shirt and pulls him a little closer, an action that's wildly uncharacteristic for her and catches Chris off guard. He tightens his hold on her and rests his chin on top of her head.

"I can't believe you didn't even wait to shower." She grumbles into his chest and he laughs.

"I just wanted to see you."

She pulls him into the bathroom and has to hold in her gasp when she turns on the light. Chris looks like he's been through hell and back with his eyes dulled by the dark circles that frame them and splatters of blood peppered across his cheek. His uniform is torn in several spaces and there's a slight limp in his gait that concerns her.

"I'm fine." He quickly insists because he knows that incredulous look in her eye. "The blood isn't mine."

Jill knows by the ghastly expression on his face that it's not something he's ready to discuss. She starts to run a bath, turning the tap on hot, and she stands in front of him with an unreadable expression on her face as she slowly begins to undress him. He doesn't dare speak because he _knows_ this Jill; he met her once after Arklay and again following the Veltro conspiracy.

She pulls his shirt upwards and Chris winces when he raises his arms as a muscle pulls in his shoulder. Jill's gaze flitters across the expanse of his chest, the movement of her eyes halting at each individual bruise and scratch that mars his skin. She runs the pad of her thumb along a laceration that spans from his sternum to the lateral aspect of his ribcage and frowns.

His expression is dark and he's pliant beneath her hands. Chris is defeated and he doesn't have to speak for her to realize that he's lost someone again. She studies the stain of purple and blue that covers his abdomen and carefully undoes the button of his pants and strips him bare in one careful movement.

Chris's left knee is swollen and red. She kneels down to touch it gingerly and he hisses in response. Jill moves to stand and presses her palm against his shoulder, prompting him to turn around. It's a familiar routine that they're engrossed in, one that they've partaken in a thousand times post-mission to evaluate the trauma they had sustained.

The dried blood on his back obscures the scratches that lay beneath, but she can tell something had its claws in him at some point. The puncture sites are raised, angry, and red and she knows better than to touch them, lest they begin to bleed once again. The rest of his skin is interspersed with bruises and she thinks she has seen enough, so she ushers him into the tub with a wave of a hand.

He hisses as he sinks into the steaming water, but he relaxes as he adjusts to the heat. It's a godsend for his aching muscles and he closes his eyes as he allows himself to descend further beneath the water's surface. Jill starts slowly as she presses a damp rag against his face, wiping away the crusted up blood that's caught in the stubble on his face.

She washes his hair, working the shampoo deep into his scalp. He leans into her touch and pretends that she's washing away more than the sweat and gore that covers him with a grimy film. His eyes are closed and she moves her soapy hands down to his shoulders, working her fingertips into the knots that have formed in the thick muscle.

It's a slow ritual, but eventually the water becomes dark and cold and he leaves the tub feeling as though his sins have been rinsed down the drain. Jill towels off his hair as he sits on the edge of the tub and he wonders what he did in life to deserve her, but he doesn't dwell on it for too long. He presses a kiss to her cheek and she turns her head, bringing her lips to his and he kisses her again and again.

"I don't deserve you." He suddenly speaks, voice hoarse.

Something about the way he says it makes her feel guilty. Jill looks down at her hands that are red and wrinkled from the water and tries her best to think of how to make her confession, but she has never been one for flowery prose and creativity.

"I'm pregnant." She plainly says, the words lingering heavily in the air.

Chris blinks and tries to replay what she said in his head, but he can't recall the words that came out of her mouth.

"What?" He asks and she laughs nervously.

"I'm pregnant." She repeats, but her voice wavers this time, uncertain.

There's a shared silence.

"Really?" He asks. "Like...with a baby?"

Jill raises an eyebrow curiously.

"What else would it be, Chris?"

He stares into space, mulls over the possibilities.

"With mine?" He asks so softly that it almost hurts.

She can only nod and there's another pause that lasts so long that she thinks she might throw up out of anticipation.

"Holy shit." He finally whispers. "I'm going to be a dad."

Jill doesn't know how to take it until he grins so wide that she worries he might hurt himself. Chris pulls her into a crushing hug, but quickly lets up on his grip because _oh my god, she's pregnant _and he doesn't want to hurt her.

He pulls away, hands moving to her waist as he looks her up and down.

"You're sure, right?"

She nods, "Claire took me to the doctor to confirm."

"_Claire_ knows?"

"Well," she nervously worries her lip between her teeth, "She doesn't know that it's two."

"Two what?" He asks. "Two weeks?"

Jill hopes to god that their children don't inherit their father's intelligence.

"Two babies, Chris. We're having twins."

Chris's eyes widen as he whispers out of amazement, "I didn't know I could do that."

His heart is so full that he feels he might burst. Chris cups her face in his hands and kisses her once, twice, and then a third time before he regretfully pulls away to wipe away the tears in his eyes. He laughs and his lips are on hers again as he scoops her up into his arms to carry her to the bedroom. Jill wraps her legs around him for leverage and is careful to avoid resting her arm against his injured shoulder and he hesitates before putting her on the bed.

"We can still have sex, right?" He bashfully asks and Jill thinks he's the dumbest, most adorable man she's ever met.

He makes timid love to her in a way that's almost as endearing as it is infuriating. She assures him that she's not made of glass, but he's _pretty_ positive that it's not healthy to smother his unborn children with his two hundred and twenty pounds of mass. It's not particularly satisfying, but she enjoys it anyway and curls up under his heavy arm as they lay back against the mattress, breathless.

There is no pretense to the question that follows. Chris looks at her for a moment before averting his attention back to the ceiling above them.

"Do you want to get married?"

Jill's breathing pauses before she answers just as nonchalantly, "Sure."

He turns onto his side and she hears him rummage through the drawer of his nightstand, but she's too exhausted to investigate the reason. Chris turns back to her and leans over her, looking down on her for a moment before kissing her.

"Sorry that there's no fireworks or whatever you women dream about." He murmurs against her mouth. "I had better plans before you...died, you know."

He awkwardly slips a ring on her finger as he cringes at his word choice. It's a simple piece of jewelry, a silver band holding a humble diamond, and she thinks she might cry, so she kisses him instead.

"I think it's perfect." She admits when she pulls away to peek at the ring once more.

He grins and presses a kiss to her nose before pleading, "Just tell Claire I did something great so she doesn't give me hell, alright?"

She rolls her eyes.

"She'll give you hell anyway because, damn, Chris, you really know how to keep a girl waiting."

Chris smirks as he leans in close, lips hovering above hers as he murmurs, "Good things come to those who wait, Jill."


End file.
